DN: Sketchbook
by Albino Magpie
Summary: Collection of drabbles. Contains spoilers, sexual situations and various pairings.
1. MetalFirst

**Metal/First**

It was odd. Mixed up, switched up, uncanny. Matt had always liked himself some symbolism, and he couldn't understand how it came to pass that _gold_, pure uncorrupted gold, hair and spirit, could be breaking his teeth trying to better silver. It wasn't right that golden, bright and intense Mello should hit his pillow and snarl, too stubborn to cry.

It wasn't right that the fragile, silver prodigy that was Near was treated like the only one who mattered. But Matt was, if nothing else, blessed with insight. He saw how Near turned his head away and tightened his grip on his playthings whenever he saw how _close _Matt and Mello were, what a connection they had. Near had his mind and a massive collection of plastic, and that was that.

If Mello was gold/silver and Near was silver/gold, that would probably make Matt bronze. But his hair was more like copper or rust anyway, and he cared little about gold/silver/bronze and the whole title thing. He was with Mello, by his side, and frankly didn't care who was which metal.

Mello would always be his first place, anyway.


	2. GiftDeath

**Gift/Death**

The large room is empty at this hour, except for the two oldest children of the house. One is curled up on a large couch, immersed in a book on supernatural phenomenons. The other one is sprawled on the floor, filling out a crossword with a bright red gel pen while pop music blares from his walkman's speakers. The one on the floor looks up with unnatural eyes, and purses his lips. He stares at the boy on the couch and makes some quick calculations in his head.

„I know when you'll die."

The one on the couch seems unfazed. He knows that he won't achieve his goal, like he knows that fire burns and that you die if you don't eat.

„So? If it interests you, I know how you'll die."

The boy dubbed A sees a prison cell, and knows of a sudden stabbing pain in the chest. It's like the words „cardiac arrest" are written on B's face. Figuratively speaking, of course.

„Say what? I don't think I want to know." B retrieves a lollipop from his pocket and sticks it into his mouth.

„Me neither."

A returns to his book. „For every gift a price must be paid." is the heading of the next chapter.

In their cases, the prices clearly are their sanity and their lives.

A knows it.


	3. MorningsForbidden

**Mornings/Forbidden**

Mornings are too harsh. When he climbs out of bed and dodges the debris of chocolate wrappers and crumpled paper on the floor, the light hits him in the face like a slap. When he moves towards the bathroom and tries to kick his brain into working with a lot of cold water applied to his face (Mello hates coffee), he slowly begins to remember what he dreamed at night.

Forbidden. Silver and gold hair mingling, small white hands running up his chest, ivory skin flushed red, breathing hard in pleasure. Not right, not possible, not what he wants anyway.

Dream-logic. In the dreams, hatred is represented by sexuality. That must be it. He tries to force down the memories, they return with a vengeance. Forget cold water in the face, he'll just take a shower. A cold shower.

Later, golden hair dripping, rivulets of water running down his towel-clad body, he returns to the bedroom. Matt is still sleeping, one arm flung across the bed, the other hanging down, knuckles brushing the floor. He nudges him awake; Matt's hair is messed up in endearing way, partially standing on end. He is surprised with a cold, wet kiss, as Mello's hands tangle in his hair and he tries to chase away the memories of smooth white skin and black eyes.


	4. PromiseWhole

**Promise/Whole**

It's perfect in a way that isn't accepted. He feels complete, he feels whole.

Matt's fingers curl over shoulders, one pale and smooth, the other covered with a twisted knotwork of scarred skin that runs up the graceful column of Mello's neck and drapes over the left half of his face. No matter how many times Matt tells him he's still beautiful, he always answers:

„Failure is never beautiful."

So Matt shows instead of telling, shows how much he wants and needs him. Licking and scratching at the frail chest that starts heaving, running his hands over the firm muscle on his stomach, sliding down, down, down on the bed until his head is between Mello's thighs. Mello shudders when Matt takes his first taste, and begins twisting and turning and screams until his throat hurts as his body succumbs to the skillful ministrations. When the climax arrives, he is carried away by a wave of pleasure and later he'll only sketchily remember shouting out Matt's name again and again.

When Mello has come to his senses again some time after, he dimly realises he has a good amount of torn-out copper hair clenched in his fists. He attempts an apology, but Matt waves it off.

„What's that bit of hair against hearing you scream my name like that? It's unimportant."

Mello attempts to joke, even though his head is still clouded. „You sacrifice your hair for my pleasure? I must be dear to you, really."

Matt's face suddenly turns serious. „You know I'd sacrifice everything for you. Hell, I'd die for you."

Matt tries to remember old school lessons and babelfish translations. He hopes he won't screw this up.

„Ich würde sterben für dich."

Mello is speechless at the sincere words and at being addressed in his mother tongue.

He lays a hand on Matt's arm.

„Please don't."


	5. AttentionPervert

**Attention/Pervert**

Being a model, especially one who habitually dresses in revealing gothic lolita clothes, it's natural that Amane Misa likes being the center of attention. From interviewers to photographers to random passer-byes on the street, everyone looks at her, takes a second glance, makes a comment.

„Look, it's Misa-Misa!"

„She's so cute!"

„Man, I wish she was my girlfriend."

„I bet she's a real airhead. No girl who's that cute is smart."

She's used to comments like that by now. She takes the good with the bad and tries to get along with everybody. She knows men find her attractive, and she knows they like to voice their thoughts aloud. But to every rule there is an exception, and in Misa's case the exception is known as „Ryuuga".

From him, there are no skimming, approving glances like from other men. His eyes, black and impervious, seem to look _through_ her skin, _beneath_ her image, and stare right into her soul. Sometimes, when he is looking at her, a strange, almost frightening smile appears on his face.

He gives her attention. He notices her. He may be scary and a pervert, and she has a feeling he's thinking of unnameable things when he's looking at her.

But in each of these moments, a corner of her mind insists that Light should be looking at her that way. Light, who has made no further moves towards her other than mostly-chaste kisses and hesitant hands on her waist, should think perverted and forbidden things when he looks at her.

His eyes should start to glitter.

He should just get closer to her.

Misa is happy about Lights chivalry. She is happy with being his eyes, helping him to recreate the world. But she isn't satisfied.

Much as she despises Ryuuga, no matter how frustrated she is with the pervert...

...at least _someone_ is giving her attention.


	6. CardsFrightened

**Cards/Frightened**

The candles are lit. The rug is placed on the floor, the incense is smoldering in a corner. Johanna Keehl settles down and begins shuffling her tarot deck. Her six year-old son is busy playing in his room. She doesn't want him to see the prophecy she's attempting to make for him. That sort of thing can be more harm than good for a young child.

Quietly, she draws the first card, the one that represents her son's personality. _The Fool_, the one that goes on a journey to gain wisdom, the one that challenges the gods and is protected by his innocence. Johanna smiles. That is like she was in her youth, searching for something without knowing what it was. The second one shows her son's talents. _Justice_, craving fairness and rightfulness in the world. What his path will be exactly, she doesn't know. The only thing she is sure of is that he is frighteningly intelligent for his age.

When she tries to draw a card for her son's future, her hand slips and two cards fall into her lap.

_The Tower _and _Death_. Johanna is experienced in reading the cards and knows that Death may sometimes mean a great change, or an unlucky turn, but she is frightened. She fears for her son's life, as every mother would. The Tower's meaning of crumbling foundations and trauma doesn't make it any better. Johanna leaves the deck on the floor and goes to look what her son is doing. She forces herself not to hurry.

Mihael is worried about his mother. He is immersed in a puzzle (if only he knew how much he'd hate them later), when his mother walks into the room, and envelopes him in a hug, as if fearing he'd suddenly disappear. When she stands up again, he can see tears in her eyes.

„Warum weinst du, Mama?"

„Mach dir keine Sorgen. Es geht mir gut."

In Johanna's bedroom, the _Wheel Of Fortune _is lying on top of the cards.


	7. HopeSubstitute

**Hope/Substitute**

_...Please buckle your seatbelts and stay put until we have reached our altitude..._

Anthony Rester held back a sigh of frustration as he watched the pale child-prodigy in the seat next to his fidget and fumble with the buckle, his normally nimble hands seemingly overburdened with the task. He reached over and adjusted the straps, a resounding _click _giving proof that Near was securely strapped in. Near. A mind like a computer network, thoughts firing faster than normal people could even comprehend. The ability to build complex structures out of simple matchsticks. Able to analyze every aspect of a situation in seconds, unable to go grocery shopping on his own. Dextrous enough to make a perfectly balanced tower out of _rubber ducks_, but not able to tie his shoelaces. At eighteen years of age.

Rester looked again at the _child _sitting next to him, a frightening intellect and bare ruthlessness side-by-side with the wide-eyed wondering of an infant, for whom the world is a great miracle.

This was it. This was the greatest hope of mankind against a tyrant who believed he was God. This was their secret weapon, their stronghold, and he was an immature boy who languished in pyjamas all day and clutched his plastic robots like a lifeline.

Somehow, Rester sometimes felt like a parent. He was assigned to protect this miracle mind in a porcelain body. Porcelain. Many people sought to break it. Some might have succeeded, if it weren't for him. He'd never had a wife, or children. His work didn't allow it. He wondered what it would be like to actually be the father of this puerile mastermind. Other than the relation of blood, his duties were not too far off. But he couldn't hope for affection from this ice prince.

Protecting mankind's hope was simply Rester's job.

„The flight is going to take many hours." Near's voice cut his musings off aprubtly.

„Please hand me one of the robots I have in my duffel bag."

And Rester obliged and Near took the toy from his hands almost impatiently and looked at him for a moment. If he'd wanted to play pretend for a bit, Rester could have imagined a hint of thankfulness in those bottomless eyes.

He was doing his job good, after all.


	8. Kiss Goodbye

**A/N: **_Onesided B/L._ _Whoever can figure out what B is trying to say gets a cookie._

Kiss/Goodbye

Look at me now. Through the glass.

Look, you can see how they strapped me down.

I can't even move my fingers, or turn my head.

So you don't need to be scared of me. Come in, please.

Closer. Closer still. Fine.

Can I tell you a secret? Please?

I'll tell you. Listen.

E-K.

Did you get it? Should I repeat it?

You got it.

Do you know what it means? No? Well, I do. You will find out. In time.

You have to leave again? So soon?

Give me a kiss goodbye, then. Just a little one. One chaste little kiss. Please?

No? You don't want to? Pity.

E-K, remember?

This is goodbye, then.


	9. Spanish Exceed

**A/N: **_Just girl!A and B being weird._

Spanish/Exceed

The sky is blue today, almost artificially so. The skinny youth holding a battered tennis racket looks quite out of place on the court. It seems to big for him, but perhaps that's just his posture. He is wearing a scuffed pair of sneakers, the collar of his shirt is stained red. The legs of his faded jeans have been cut of at the knee.

_pok. pok. pok. _The tennis ball is banged down experimentally a few times. Then the boy assumes his stance. His partner, an equally skinny girl with tangled brown hair, looks at him expectantly.

"C'mon, hurry. We have to be inside at five."

_Bam! _The tennis ball, hit by the racket, flies into the net almost hard enough to make it tear.

"Damnit!" Off he goes to the side of the court, reaching for the half-empty jar of strawberry jam for comfort. The girl leans one hand on her hip and pushes her hair out of her eyes with the other.

"You quittin' ? Well, after thirteen lost games and one busted racket, it's natural to get a little frustrated. But still, I would've thought you'd go further than that. You did so much already. You learned Spanish-"

"_¡Cállate de una vez!_ So did you."

The girl was undeterred. "You learned Spanish, you cut your hair, you eat nothing but this horrible sweet stuff-"

"I said shut it, A. Jam is sweet stuff, not _horrible _sweet stuff, and I have liked it long before I knew that the _current,_"he put extra emphasis on the word, "that the current L likes sweet things. And with some more practice, I will exceed all expectations and become an outstanding tennis player."

"As soon as you get the ball past the net, sure." A laughed and dodged out of the way of a tennis ball that was thrown into her general direction.

"_¡Cállate de una vez!_"


	10. Red Night

Red/Night

Scare him. Beat him. Be him.  
He cared about his goals, of course, but not so much at night.  
At night, when his _blessedly_ long and spidery fingers (it would have been very difficult to fake those) run over his body leaving trails of sweet fire in their wake. The memories are as fresh as ever, even though they are only glances of snowy skin and black hair and black eyes (and he hates putting the contact lenses in, but he has to) that seem to see the red, red blood under the equally pale skin of the other. And now he's in his one-room apartment that's cheap and inconspicuous, and his fingernails are leaving bloody marks on his own chest. Oh, how he wishes it was L's.  
Now, he's red and black and white all over, the danger-eyes lacking contacts at the moment are closed, better to focus on the film playing in his head. Black hair, and pale skin, the body that looks frail but isn't...he might as well be looking in the mirror.

But he isn't quite that narcissist yet.


End file.
